


Mind Games

by Celebrimbor1999



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dark, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Murder, Psychological Horror, suicide awareness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-07-28 12:19:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16241483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celebrimbor1999/pseuds/Celebrimbor1999
Summary: A series of short stories set around the idea of mental issues, mentalism, and murder. Because murder is interesting to write. Not commit. Never commit.This is also, sometimes, an awareness fic. Because everyone needs to be aware of their friends and family. Sometimes people need help. And, as you'll see in my stories, sometimes people don't get that help. And it can have catastrophic consequences.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You will never get away. You can never leave. I will always be right behind you. Because you're the One.
> 
> WARNING: Stalker alert
> 
> Will be marked as complete, because it is a one shot collection. These stories will not be interconnected.

I love it when you’re scared.

When your face goes white and your hands start to tremble, I feel so… _powerful._ I’m the one invoking that reaction from you. I’m the one who’s making adrenaline rush through your veins. I’m the one scaring you.

It’s an amazing feeling, having so much power over you. Intoxicating. Invigorating. Like the ultimate rush that never gets old. No rollercoaster ride can mimic such a feeling.

Yesterday, I saw you at the shops with your girlfriend. She was all over you like a bad rash. Her squealing gave me a headache, and I think the shop assistant had one too, with the face she was making. It was sickening to see you pulled down to such a level, having to _consort_ with someone like her, having to _hold_ her and _kiss_ her and _make her feel **special**_.

Because you’re good at making people feel special.

After you dropped the girl home, with her making a disgusting display at the front door, I was so close to running over there and pulling you away. But I didn’t. Because that would give the game away.

I followed you back to your apartment block. The love in your voice as you greet your mother, the masculine slap on the back from your father as he congratulated you on a great report card; it all made me sigh. How I wished I could be there with you, instead of watching from the window. But not to worry; that day will come soon enough.

I decide to stay the night; not that it’s anything new, really. Sleep evades me whenever I’m away from you, so my little _sleepovers_ aren’t a rare occurrence. I don’t really like sleeping when I’m near you though, for a couple of reasons. One is the fact that I hate to think of missing out on any time watching you, even if it’s just you sleeping. The other is the idea that you’ll find out about me.

I hate the thought.

If you find out about me, then everything’s done. No more sleepovers, no more shopping trips, no more shared classes. Nothing. This whole… _relationship…_ is based on the fact that you don’t know I’m here. That’s what makes it thrilling. Where’s the fun in watching someone who knows you’re there?

So I stay silent, I stay hidden and I stay unnoticed. And everything’s fine. Until today, that is.

You noticed. I must have made a sound at some point, murmured too loudly, walked too close. Because you’ve been really tense all day. In homeroom, you were like a startled rabbit, and, to be fair, it was an invigorating sensation, but was marred by the fact that _you knew._ Every other time I scared you, it was under the guise of someone else. Someone not connected.

But today, your fear was caused by me. _Directly_ by me.

In science, your hands were shaking so badly that you spilled the water all over the table. I was able to brush up against your arm as I cleaned it, place a hand on your shoulder as you stuttered apologies. Your face was as white as your lab coat.

No one else noticed anything wrong, not even your _beloved girlfriend._ But I did. Maybe because I’m the one causing it.  Nothing notable happened for the rest of the day. You jumped at the slightest of sounds, you were anxious and inattentive. Your fear seemed to surround you like a cloak.

 After school, you ran like a frightened hare. And, like a rabid wolf, I gave chase. You knew I was behind you. I wasn’t exactly trying to hide my footsteps. Your breathing was heavy; running had never been your strong point. You were more of the stay-and-fight kind of person. But then, you can’t fight against something you can’t see. And you can’t see me.

I’m always hidden from you, even when I’m in plain sight. Even when you’re talking to me, you still don’t _see me!_ You don’t see my adoration, my love, my hate. I love you for the reactions you invoke in me, but I hate you for playing with my feelings, for beginning things without any intention of completing them.

I doubt you know _exactly_ what you do to me.

My anger makes me speed up, and soon, I could be level with you. I could run _with_ you, not behind you. But I don’t. I don’t want you to see me. I don’t want the game, which is practically moot at this point anyway, to end. So I stay behind you, herding you to a place of my choosing.

The park has been abandoned for years. Swamp-like sandpit. Broken swings. Rusted slides. No sane parent would allow their child to enter this place. It’s perfect for my purposes. Finally, you and I are alone.

You slow as you reach the center of the area, your chest heaving. I stay behind you, out of your line of sight. The moment when you will see me, finally see me, is growing closer, and anticipation makes me shiver.

First comes your feet, then hips, then chest, and finally, your head, as you turn. Your eyes rise, and you see me. In your eyes, I can tell that you are finally _seeing me!_ But then doubt takes over as confusion covers your face, then fear, along with a hint of disgust. No! No, this wasn’t meant to happen!

You were meant to be scared, not disgusted! You weren’t meant to shy away, you were meant to be still! Still, so that I could reach out and finally touch you!

I snarl and catch your arm even as you move. You ruined it! The game is over, but I haven’t won! How could I lose at my _own game!?_  

Anger places a red-tinted film over my eyes, and soon, blood isn’t distinguishable from skin, and the embrace that I longed for was a lot colder than I dreamed of.

~~~~~~

Outside the park, I see you. You’re walking alone, nodding your head to whatever song is in your ears. You seem so lively, so happy, in your cute little school uniform. Vaguely, I see another face in the same uniform, but I push it away. No one else could match your beauty. I follow behind you at a casual pace, already making plans for another game. Maybe I’d win this one, unlike the others. her her


	2. The Flyer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't give the Answers, I just ask the Questions.

People see the little flyers everywhere. Lost dog. Homework Tutor. For Sale. Just pull off one of the little tags and call the number. Get what you need. What you _want._ My flyer is just one of a hundred.

_Want Help?_

_Feel like the world is pushing down on you? Call the Oracle and connect with someone who will listen to all your troubles. Like a confessional, but without Christian prejudice. Call today!_

You saw my flyer today. You told me that you were coming home from work, just gotten fired, and was waiting at the bus stop, watching them all go by. You didn’t want to hail them. You didn’t want to go home.

At home waits your husband. Your children. Your dog. If you go home, you’d have to tell them about the perverted boss who tried to feel you up, about the male co-workers who looked but didn’t touch, the women who hissed _whore_ and _bitch_ and _slut_ around coffee cups and photocopiers. You’d have to tell them how you finally stood up for yourself, called the boss a pervert and sick and twisted, yelled at the male co-workers for leering and the women for judging. You’d have to tell them how your boss went red and screamed, how the male co-workers leered even more and sprouted filth, how the women looked on and justified themselves.

_FIRED!_ It still rings in your mind.

So you saw my flyer, glued to a power pole. You saw all the tags that had already been pulled off, saw how few were left. _Want Help? Call today!_

You pulled one off. You called. The phone rang through once. Twice. Thrice. You were about to hang up.

It connected.

“Hello, this is the Oracle. How’s your day been?”

“It-It’s been absolutely shi-Horrible. Horrible.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“YES!” You flinch at your eagerness, the relief in your voice. There’s no judgment on the other end of the phone, just polite interest.

“This is a safe space, where you can talk about whatever you’d like. Are you somewhere you feel comfortable?”

You look around. You’re still sitting at that bus stop, but buses have stopped coming by. The sky is getting darker, but the light nearby flickers on. “Yes.”

“Then, you can talk for as long as you like.”

And you do. You talk, and talk, and talk. You complain about your boss, your male co-workers, the women. You complain about your job, the lack of thanks or perks or basic, common human decency. You find yourself complaining about your husband, the way he comes home and sits on the couch, the way he expects dinner on the table and a drink in his hand, the lack of thanks or perks or basic, common human decency. You complain about your children, the two boys and little girl, the way they spread paint on the walls and mud on the carpet, the way they throw away their food but expect more, the lack of thanks or perks or basic, common human decency. You even complain about your dog, the way you never wanted it, the way it stinks up the house and backyard, the slobber that covers the floors and fur that covers the couch, the lack of thanks or perks or basic, common human decency.

Because that’s all you want. Thanks. Someone to acknowledge you.

Finally, your voice goes hoarse. The sun has completely disappeared. No car has driven past in ages.

“Erika, how do you feel now?”

You feel surprised. How did I know your name?

“Erika?”

“Oh, I-I I feel… lighter? Calmer, definitely.” And you really do. You think back to that flyer. _Feel like the world is pushing down on you?_

“At Oracle, our goal is to make you feel better about yourself. Are you satisfied with our service?”

“Yes. Yes I am. Thank you so much!”

“You’re very welcome Erika. If you hold onto our number, you can call us whenever you feel down. Have a nice night.”

“Wait!” You can’t let me go yet. You don’t want this conversation to end. “What-What’s your name?”

There’s a pause. “My name is Kiera.”

“If I call again, can I talk to you?

There’s a longer pause. You pull the phone away from your ear for a moment, afraid that I’ve hung up. I haven’t.

“Next time you call, ask for Kiera.”

“Okay.” You begin to grin. This day, that had been so horrible, now seemed a whole lot better. “Goodnight Kiera.”

“Have a good night Erika.” And I hang up.

You’re still smiling, even when your husband yells at you for being ‘late to the bus stop’ and having to pick you up.

\---------

“Hello, this is the Oracle. How has your day been?”

You frown. “Um, my-my day’s been… not good. Can I- Can I talk to Kiera?”

“Of course you can. Please give me a moment.” The line is silent before another voice speaks. “Hello, this is Kiera.”

“Kiera! It-It’s Erika.” You are slightly ashamed of your eagerness, but it’s been an entire week since you’d spoken to me. You didn’t want to call too soon.

“Hello Erika! How has your week been?” You hope that you’re not imagining the hint of excitement in my voice.

“It’s not been the greatest. Can I talk to you about it?”

“Of course.”

You complain about your family again, the dog and the kids and the husband. You complain about the lack of references from your old job. You complain about the way no one wants to hire you.

In a whisper, you worry that you’ve been blacklisted by your old boss, that your male co-workers have been talking about you to their friends, that the women have been gossiping with other companies.

“And-and there’s something else.” You murmur later, after almost two hours of complaints and worried.

“What is it?”

“It’s like there’s an itch… my back feels weird whenever I go job-hunting, like there’s someone touching me. But there’s no one there! I keep checking, I wash my clothes with tons of fabric softener, I’ve stopped wearing wool and started putting tank tops on under my button-ups, but my back still itches!”

“Maybe it’s worry.” My voice is smooth and calm. “Maybe you need to relax. Don’t worry too much about job hunting, or your family. Everything will work out.”

“Will it?” Your voice is weak, a little desperate.

“It will.”

\-----

“Hello, this is the Oracle. How has your day been?”

You don’t even bother with a greeting. “Can I talk to Kiera?”

“Certainly. One moment.”

You’re restless, shivering. It’s been another week. Another horrible, itchy, sweaty, chilly week.

“Hello, this is Kiera.”

“Kiera!” You don’t even try to disguise the relief in your voice. “It’s gotten worse!”

“Erika? Are you talking about the itching?”

“Yes! I’m still itchy, and I’ve started to get these random shivers! It’s like someone’s tap dancing on my grave! But I’m not cold! I’m absolutely boiling!” You’re almost sobbing.

“You’re going to be okay Erika. Why don’t you tell me about your week first?”

Your complaints this week are much the same as before. Work, dog, kids, husband. The longer you talk, the calmer you feel. Eventually you fall silent.

“Better?” I ask.

“A lot better.” You answer. “I’m not itching, I’m not sweating. It’s great.”

“That’s very good Erika.”

\----

The next few weeks follow the same pattern for you. You itch. You sweat. You don’t find a job. Your husband begins to complain about the lack of money coming in. Your children complain about the ceasing of trips to the movie, the necessity of saving money. Even the dog seems to be disappointed, as he’s begun to poo on the carpets.

But this week, it’s gotten worse.  

“Hello, this is the Oracle. How has your day been?”

You begin to sob. “I need Kiera!”

“Hello, this is Kiera.”

You sob harder, tears running down your face, snot dripping from your nose. You’ve hidden yourself in the bathroom, because you can’t find the courage to leave the house. “Kiera!!”

“Erika! What’s wrong?”

“It-it-it…” You hiccup. “It’s gotten worse!” And now you’re wailing.

“Tell me all about it,” I sooth. “I’m listening. I’m here.”

The itching got worse, you explain. It’s now all over your body, like ants crawling under your clothes. You shiver uncontrollably, but you can’t stand sleeping under the covers. The sweat makes everything worse, with clothes sticking to skin. You’ve been showering three times a day for the past week. Your husband is going to be very upset with the water bill.

For hours you talk. The kids come home from school, but you ignore the knocks on the bathroom door. The shivers abate. The itching disappears. The sweat dries on your skin.

“Feeling better?” I ask.

“Much better.” You sigh.

“You know, you can call me more than once a week, if that will make you feel better.”

“It will.”

“Then call me when you need me Erika.”

\------

It’s only been three days. But since your last phone call, your mother has visited.

 “Hello, this is the Oracle. How has your day been?”

“I need Kiera!”

“Hello, this is Kiera.”

Your mother is very disappointed with your lack of a job, especially since your husband had called her to complain. He’s always been her favourite. She’d picked up the kids from school, and they complained too, about mum having too many showers and never being able to go over to friends’ houses. The dog’s coat wasn’t brushed. The house wasn’t vacuumed. There were dishes in the sink. With every one of your mother’s complaints, your skin itched. You began to sweat through your thin summer dress, and you were shaking like a cold-turkey ex-addict.

You’ve locked yourself in the bathroom again, to hide from the mother and husband and kids and dogs, to scratch at your skin, to leave stark red lines behind.

But the more you talk, the better you feel. You leave your skin alone.

“Feeling better?” I ask.

“Much better.” You sigh.

“Remember, call me whenever you need me.”

“I will.”

“Have a good day, Erika.”

\-----

Soon, you’re calling every day. Soon, even Kiera’s words aren’t enough to stop the itching, the chills, the sweat. You’re beginning to bleed, and the cold water from your near constant showers make the marks sting. You’ve become almost incoherent.

But I can still hear you.

Your children have been taken in by your mother for the school holidays. Your husband has gone off ‘fishing’, but you whisper your suspicions of a mistress, a woman younger and more beautiful. Your dog escaped the house last night, and you watched through the window as he was hit by a car. You didn’t collect his body.

“What’s your address Erika? I’ll send something that can help.”

You’ve been living in the bathroom, climbing into the cold bath every time the sweat and itchiness gets too much. The only time you left was to get the package.

“Take two of the pills now, and another two when you go to bed. Don’t take more than six a day.” I tell you, and for a time the shivers and sweat and itchiness abate. Your husband comes home. Your children go to school, and no one asks about the dog sized rectangle of fresh soil in the backyard.

And every time the itchiness picks up, every time the sweat gets too much, you pop another two pills. And another. And another. Until just six pills aren’t working. You call me twice a day now, falling asleep as you talk. You beg for more pills, for the itchiness to go away.

And then, one day, I tell her exactly how to do it.

You lay down in your bath, strewn with rose petals and lit up by candles. There’s a glass of wine on the stool nearby, and the bottle of pills is in your hand. You don’t stop drinking and downing until the bottle is empty.

\-------

“Hello, this is the Oracle. How’s your day been?”

“Hi, uh, I-I found this and I… ugh, I really need to talk to someone. You see, my wife, she’s killed herself, and I- I just – I don’t know what I did wrong, I need someone to talk to.”

“This is a safe space, where you can talk about whatever you’d like. Are you somewhere you feel comfortable?”

“Yes.”

“Then, you can talk for as long as you like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you feel like this - itchy, paranoid, like the whole world is pushing down on you - get help. Talk to your families and friends. Don't push them away. If you don't want to talk to them, talk to me. I accept all comments and messages, and I will answer. 
> 
> You are not alone.


End file.
